


Above the Hungry Earth

by spacehopper



Series: Surrounded [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bondage, Caning, Cock Warming, Dark!Jon, Extra Treat, Impact Play, M/M, Trick or Treat: Trick, Wingfic, dark!Martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:07:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27340963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehopper/pseuds/spacehopper
Summary: Escape will not be tolerated. It's a lesson that Tim has yet to learn, but Jon and Martin are more than willing to help him. As many times as it takes.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Series: Surrounded [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2004979
Comments: 3
Kudos: 33
Collections: Trick or Treat Exchange 2020





	Above the Hungry Earth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reine_des_corbeaux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reine_des_corbeaux/gifts).



Tim isn’t sure if the open sky is a mercy, or a taunt. So soon after his most recent escape attempt, it feels like the latter, a reminder of everything he isn’t allowed to have. Not unless he starts obeying them, gives into their demands to become monsters like them. And he isn’t that far gone.

He can’t be that far gone. Not yet.

His head droops for a moment, resting against the pillow Martin set across the top of the custom pillory. He tugs fruitlessly at his bonds, fluttering his wings and wincing as the movement pulls on wounds that are still healing. Maybe it’s neither of those things. Not a taunt, not a mercy, but a temptation. 

Look. Behold. Everything the Eye touches will one day be yours.

What a load of bullshit.

He grits his teeth and flaps his wings hard enough to make him cry out in pain, lifting him slightly off the ground. It’s a pointless act of rebellion, the manacles more than enough to hold him in place, and with his wings clipped, he can’t do much more that flap pointlessly anyway. But none of that matters. The only thing he cares about is proving to himself that whatever the pain, whatever the temptation, he won’t become _them._

A hand tugs at a feather, and he jumps. The laugh sounds like Martin, sounds like the same amusement he might have once expressed at startling Tim out of a late afternoon nap. _Out late at the pub?_ he might’ve asked then, smile gone slightly wistful. But he doesn’t ask that now. He doesn’t need to. He knows exactly where Tim’s been.

“I hope you’re not too uncomfortable?” 

Tim snorts, burying his face into the soft satin of the cushion. His chest shakes, and he knows if he doesn’t keep his head turned into it, biting into the sweat damp fabric, he won’t be able to stop the hysterical laughter bubbling inside him. Or maybe it’s not laughter. Maybe this time he’ll cry, and Martin will pet his hair and coo and pretend like any of this isn’t just another way to break him. 

So he breathes in, and out. Martin doesn’t touch his hair, but he does run a hand over Tim’s wing, gentle enough Tim can almost believe it’s an accident when he pushes too hard on a still healing bruise. 

“Jon will be here soon,” Martin says. 

There’s that wistfulness, that fondness that Tim might’ve once found sweet, might’ve once made him bitter but in a way that might also be called wistful. Now it’s twisted into something sour, bringing up bile in the back of his throat. Whispering lies to him, lies they both repeat. _You can be part of us. One of us. An equal. Just do as we say._

It’s the last that Tim always clings to, that makes him certain it’s a lie. If they wanted to persuade him, there are better ways to do it than this.

Martin’s hand stills on his wing. The door creaks open, and Tim tenses at the sound of footfalls, the tap of a thin cane on the floor. Even knowing it was coming, even having experienced it countless times before, he still dreads this. Perhaps if he didn’t, they’d stop. But no, that would only mean Jon would pull some other form of punishment from his fevered mind. Better they stick with the cane. 

“Is he ready, Martin?” 

Tim doesn’t bother to stifle the bitter laugh that time, lifting his head to let it ring out. He has not interest in letting either of them cling to the illusion that he is anything but a toy for them to play with, to break and put back together however they feel is best. 

“I don’t know,” Martin says, irritation creeping into his voice. “Are you ready, Tim?”

He clearly knows what Tim is thinking. Good. It’ll be mean he hits harder, furious that his hypocrisy has been pulled into the light. But that’s a pain Tim welcomes. One he truly asked for, for once.

“No,” Tim says. “I think I’d rather you come back later. Maybe have some tea first, and I’d like to take a nap. It’s so comfortable to be tied up like this, after all. In fact, maybe you could come back tomorrow? I think my schedule’s a bit tight today.” He tugs on his bonds pointedly, and is rewarded with a sharp strike across his arse.

“Jon,” Martin says firmly. “That’s not how we do this.”

“You know how he gets, Martin. He refuses to take it seriously. I don’t know why you won’t let me gag him. At least until after the initial alloted amount.”

Jon taps the cane on the floor furiously, and Tim struggles for breath. It’s not even that the blow hurt that much. But he knows if he wants to withstand this, he’ll need to gather what resolve he can. And maybe if he can nudge them into arguing with each other, Martin will talk Jon into going easier on him.

“Give it to me,” Martin says. 

It could be a good sign, or a very bad one. Martin is far less predictable in his anger than Jon, and he’s far more likely to spot when Tim’s trying to manipulate him. And also more likely to take offense to that, and react accordingly. His anger is colder than Jon’s, a chill and sudden turn to his usually far sunnier demeanor. 

And while Martin can usually turn Jon down a different path, Jon rarely contradicts Martin. If Martin thinks Tim deserves it…Tim shudders, and forces himself to remain silent. 

“We’ll stick to the plan,” Martin says decisively, running the tip of the cane lightly down Tim’s back, stopping as he reaches the curve of Tim’s arse.

“What plan is that?” Tim can’t help but ask. “I assume if there’s a plan, you came up with it. Not really Jon’s strong suit, is it?”

The blow comes down hard. Tim yelps, and flaps his wings. Or at least he tries, only managing it with his right wing as Jon leans heavily on the left one, holding it in place with a cruel grip along the edge. 

“You’re only going to hurt yourself more if you don’t keep still,” Jon says. “Martin, are you sure we shouldn’t bind his wings?”

“No, don’t do it.” Martin rubs at the welt he just left with his hand, making Tim squirm. “At least not yet. It’s not good for him, and we should at least give him a chance to behave. And if he doesn’t, there are always other options.”

“What other options?” Tim asks, flapping his wing again pointedly, glad neither of him can see him grimace as the movement pulls at a torn tendon. “I think you should just tie me down now. Get it over with.” 

“I agree, actually,” Jon says, pushing on the other wing, forcing it to fold. “Much better like this. And maybe a gag.” 

“No. I think Tim can do this. We have to at least give him a chance.” 

“Fine,” Jon says. “We’ll do it your way. But if it doesn’t work…”

“Then we’ll try your way,” Martin agrees, far too readily for Tim’s taste. 

He’s not sure he wants to discover Jon’s way, likely sprung from secrets and dark fantasies plucked out of Tim’s skull. Which all of them know, of course. It’s the point of the threat. And he hates how easily it’s working on him.

“Ready?” Martin says.

Tim’s not sure if it’s directed at him or Jon, and neither of them respond. But Jon does seem to be following some sort of plan, because he walks around to stand in front of Tim, and glares at the wooden pole that separates them.

“I don’t think this is going to work,” Jon says, resting a hand on the pole.

Martin’s hands grip Tim’s hips, the cane pressed against his skin. He pushes lightly, his intent clear. Part of Tim wants to fight this, but it’s not worth it. He needs to pick his battles. If he doesn’t—well, maybe it doesn’t matter. But he’s too tired to fight all of them. 

The position is awkward, his arm at an odd angle to allow his body to be clear of the pole. But neither of them seem to care, with Jon looking him over, eyeing his flaccid cock rather more judgmentally than Tim thinks is fair.

“This isn’t as much of a turn on as you think,” Tim says. Jon rolls his eyes, take Tim’s cock in hand and stroking it lightly. Tim’s quite pleased when it barely swells, though he know it’s more discomfort and the chill air than anything Jon has or hasn’t done. But it clearly annoys Jon, who leans around Tim to look to Martin. 

“Just suck on him like that. He’ll get hard once you start,” Martin says. 

Jon sighs, and gets to his knees. Tim turns his head to the side in time to glimpse Martin leaning down run cup Jon’s cheek, a sight he’d rather have missed. He swallows hard, and wishes he could find the will to close his eyes. But right now, he prefers to look. He’s not really in the mood for more surprises. 

It’s hard to see more, with Jon now kneeling before him, and how wide the surface of the pillory is. He tries to shift forward to get a better look, but he’s stopped by a hand gripping his hair, and a light smack across his thigh.

“Stay put,” Martin says. “And watch the sky.”

Tim’s stubborn enough to refuse the latter, if not the former. Instead of looking up, he rests his chin on the pillow, and focuses his gaze on the hungry earth below. Aching for each morsel of fear the Archivist allows it, even as it is all funneled up here to await his pleasure. A bit like Tim, in that way, though it’s sickening to think he has anything in common with the monstrous world below. 

There’s no warning before Tim’s cock is engulfed in a sudden warmth, Jon taking him deep and swallowing. And fuck them both, but Martin was right. In the heat of Jon’s mouth, Tim begins to harden, unable to stop his hips jerking until Martin grips one again.

“I said stay put,” he says. “If you do, then we can be done with this. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” 

He runs a hand down Tim’s wing. Tim’s breath hitches, muscles twitching under Martin’s touch. As if to test his obedience already, Jon’s tongue runs along the length of his cock, and Tim’s hips stutter before he can stop himself.

“It’s alright,” Martin says softly, leaning forward to whisper in his ear, his body hot along Tim’s back. “As long as you try, that’s what counts.”

Then he draws back, and the blows begin. 

At first they come slowly, each one considered, and none of them overlapping. There’s no order to them that Tim can discern, one falling high, nearly at his back, followed by another across his thighs. Then high again, and three much lower, and another in the middle. Painting his skin hot and red, a sight he knows he’ll later be unable to stop himself from checking in the long mirrors that line his prison. 

All through it, Jon keeps Tim in his mouth. Not sucking or using his tongue, beyond the involuntary twitches, the slide of his lips as he shifts his position. It doesn’t get Tim off, but it’s not supposed to. Instead it’s to keep him on edge, the way he’s always on edge, staring down and out at everything he can’t have, pulled along by a pleasure that’s only heightened by the bright sparks of pain.

And he obeys. He hates it, hates how he forces himself to still with every press of Jon’s lips, every strike of the cane. Keeping his wings frozen in place, held at at an awkward angle. If he obeys, maybe they’ll stop. The thought makes him want to laugh, or maybe cry. Either way it’s stupid. He knows it doesn’t really matter. But he forces himself anyways. 

Tim isn’t sure what the count is when the blows cease, Martin making a hmming noise as he drags the tip of the cane over Tim’s inflamed skin. A noise Jon echoes, the sudden vibrations making Tim jerk into his mouth, only to be rewarded with a particular hard strike now crossing the many lines on his arse.

“Fuck,” Tim says, trying to turn his head back to glare at Martin, only to be stopped by his hand finding Tim’s hair again, keeping him in place.

“I know it was an accident,” Martin says. He must have set the cane down, because his other hand is stroking along Tim’s left wing. It’s only then Tim realizes he’s trembling, his wings shaking with the effort of remaining still. 

“If you know that, then why—” Tim yelps as Martin tugs on his feathers, not hard enough to cause damage but enough to smart. 

“Because you needed to be reminded.” 

Martin steps back, and Tim forces himself not to hope that this is done. Even if they leave now, this won’t be the end. Because there is no end to this. Even when Jon sits back, leaving Tim’s cock hard and wet and exposed to the chill air, he refuses to consider that he might be left to rub himself off against the pole, to rest uncomfortably while they go off and do whatever it is they do when not torturing him. Maybe do some filing, or gaze adoringly into each others’ eyes while drinking in the suffering of the world. 

Just as Tim thought, there is no scheduled snack break or other interlude. Because instead of leaving the room, Martin leans against Tim. His back is to Tim now, the rough drag of his clothes catching on the welts and making Tim hiss in pain. But worst of all are his hands, each one finding a wing. He grips at the feathers, and Tim knows he really can’t move now. Not if he doesn’t want far more pain than he’s already had. 

“Martin,” Jon says. 

Tim can’t see them, but he’s watched them enough in the past that he can imagine the soppy looks they’re exchanging. With all the cheek cupping and thigh nuzzling, and maybe that’s a nip at Martin’s thigh, that makes him shudder and push harder against Tim. Whatever they’re doing, Tim doesn’t care.

This is his chance to take a bit for himself, even if he knows he’ll probably regret it later. But they’re too distracted to bother noticing as he shifts slightly, rubbing his throbbing cock against the pillory pole. It’s not really an ideal wank, but he’s been kept on edge too long, and he rarely gets the chance to get himself off these days. So he focuses on the sensation, squeezing his eyes shut even as his ears are filled with Martin’s breathy moans and the slick sound of his cock in Jon’s mouth. 

The grip on his wings tightens, and Tim gasps at the sudden shock of it, a terrible mix of pain and pleasure. His wings have always been sensitive, and that sensitivity has only seemed to increase here. Once, he even asked Jon about it, but the arsehole had just said something evasive about not knowing every mundane detail seen by the Eye. And Tim hadn’t cared enough to press it. 

“Jon—” Martin’s voice goes high as he moans, and Tim grits his teeth against an echo of longing he has long abandoned, even if his traitorous cock throbs at the sound. “I love you.” 

Tim presses his face into the pillow as Martin’s body rubs against his back, the small shocks of pain blurring even as the two bright spots on his wings remain intensely specific. None of it makes his arousal flag, his cock aching with heat as he grinds against the pole and comes with a sob, going limp only moments before Martin follows him. 

For a minute, they both stay where they are, panting. Martin’s grip has loosened, and he’s now stroking Tim’s feathers absentmindedly. Maybe this time, they really are done. He doesn’t think they’ll take him down, not yet. But sated for the moment, maybe they’ll curl around each other in the bed across the room, content to ignore Tim.

There’s a rustle of clothing, and Tim bites back a noise as Martin is suddenly pulled away from him. A scrape—it must be the cane—and then the sound of kissing. His heart pounds in his chest, and his hands clench with impotent hope.

“Your turn now, Jon,” Martin says. He’s stroking one of Tim’s wings. “Tim will be good, won’t he?”

Tim doesn’t respond. They don’t want an answer anyway. The only thing they need from him are his broken moans when Martin begins to toy with his still sensitive cock, all while stroking along the curve of his wing. Another blow falls, cracking him open.

Soon, maybe he’ll fall with it.


End file.
